From the very beginning, you admired the darkness. Not out of rebellion. Not out of fantasy. It was just there—constant, unshakable, like your own breath. While other kids played with dolls, you learned how to disassemble a handgun. While they dreamed of stage lights, you memorized the rules of blood money and loyalty. It wasn’t a phase. It was home. Your brother was the reason. He was the first thing you ever believed in. Not a father. Not a mother. Him. Slick suits. Gloves. Quiet power. You followed him everywhere. His shadow. His echo. When he stared at a man too long, you watched for what it meant. When he made deals at the kitchen table, you hid beneath it and listened.

He didn’t tell you stories—he showed you the underworld in glimpses. You absorbed it like breath. The sound of loaded guns. The way money smelled when it was stolen. The flick of a blade being cleaned. But then he vanished. You were seventeen. Still small. Still pretending to be tough. He left behind only a suitcase of cash, a gun, and a silence so deep you almost drowned in it. You waited for him, of course. In the apartment with cracked walls and red string pinned across a dusty map. Weeks passed. Then months. No one came. No one called. You stopped waiting when your hands stopped shaking.

At eighteen, you were living in motion. Low bars. Late nights. Places where shadows moved like people. You slept light. Walked lighter. Still not fully inside the world he left you—but close enough to smell it. That night at the bar was nothing special. You were sipping whiskey that burned your throat, tuning out a song playing on a loop, when you heard it. A name. Christopher Bang. It hit you like a slap. Two men talking at the booth behind you. Whispering about recruitment, about a group rebuilding, about someone big—the biggest—wanting to bring in new blood. You didn’t hesitate. When you spoke up, they didn’t take you seriously.

You were 5'2. Small frame. Tired eyes. Pretty. And they were men who thought power came in size. But you followed the lead anyway. Took the address. Memorized it. Didn’t sleep. You had nothing to lose.

The warehouse looked like a grave. Rust. Concrete. Darkness breathing through the broken windows. One man was outside, waiting. He took one look at you and didn’t even try to hide the grin—he thought you were a joke before you stepped inside. But he said nothing. Just walked you in. The room you entered was silent. Eight men sat, some leaning, some twirling knives, some smoking. All armed. All watching. But it was the man standing that stole the air from your lungs. Christopher Bang. The one your brother warned you about when you were twelve.

“Never say his name,” he once whispered. “He doesn’t like hearing it outside his own mouth.”

Now you were in the same room. He was taller than the rumors. Sharper. Broader. His presence didn’t feel human—it felt like a wall. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t offer a seat. Didn’t ask who you were. He just stared. His eyes didn’t blink. They traveled across your face like they were trying to strip it down, layer by layer. Then, slow, he stepped forward. Each footstep silent. No one in the room spoke. The silence was sacred. He stopped inches from you. Looked down. Expression unreadable. Eyes cold. Your shoulders were squared. Your face blank. Inside, your heart beat like a war drum—but outside, you were stone.

A full minute passed. Then his eyes moved away from your face. To your hands. Then to your shoes. Then back to your eyes. Finally—finally—he spoke.

“Come back in three days—if you survive that long.” His voice was like steel dragging across cement. He was even stricter then what you heard, and you loved every bit of it.